


There's a 'Grin and Bear It' Joke in Here Somewhere

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP, sticky, inappropriate and off-label use of ball bearings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a 'Grin and Bear It' Joke in Here Somewhere

Rodimus didn’t even bother to try to hide his smirk. It was all part of his leaderly mystique, he figured, that panache that was just so…Rodimus. Mechs followed leaders who always looked confident. And right now, he was bursting with confidence.

Or at least its close companion.

He watched Drift stiffen, pause, optics flaring for a klik before he went back to moving down the conference table, handing out the datarods for the briefing. An entirely unnecessary bit of ceremony, of course.  Ceremony was good.  Even Ultra Magnus approved of it as Essential for the Gravitas of the Office or something.  Right now, though, Rodimus just liked it because he knew every step made the ball-bearings he’d sealed in Drift’s valve shift and roll against the sensormesh.

Drift had protested—so loudly that Red Alert had knocked on the door asking if everything was all right—but they both knew he couldn’t really refuse Rodimus. Not when it was something Rodimus really wanted. And Drift with a valve stuffed with ball bearings…he wanted. Very, very much.

It had all already been worth it, just for the way Drift had moved, cautious, gingerly, as he'd sat up, one hand on his sealed valve's cover, feeling the weights round and shift inside him.  The expression on his face had been marvelous: arousal, embarrassment, something almost like confusion.  Rodimus was a pretty simple mech, but he could appreciate complexity. At least that kind.

Drift finished passing out the datarods, giving a quivery nod, hands clutching at the table's edge as he eased himself down, trying to keep his valve perfectly vertical, perfectly still.

And failing, apparently, judging by the way the hips twitched as he took his seat, his body rigidly upright. A vent of air, hot and aroused, hissed from his cooling systems, stirring the air around Rodimus's left hand.  Nice.

He caught the looks from the others, watching Drift as he perched on the very edge of the chair's seat, and Rodimus grinned. Maybe they thought he'd taken Drift--hard--before the meeting, bending him over the conference table and pounding into him with abandon, spiking him so hard and fast his valve was scalding hot from the friction, tender and sore.

Not a bad idea. Something he definitely planned to do, later.

The meeting was just a formality, a check-in, nothing he really had to pay attention to: Ultra Magnus, whose optics narrowed at Drift as the mech began rocking, slowly, in his seat, asked all the questions that actually mattered, and then some. Blah blah who cared what percentage of nitrogen was in the oil reservoir?  Seriously? It was 0.01% above last time. Hardly crisis material.  

So he zoned out, also caught by Drift's slow, rolling shift of weight, tipping his pelvic span backand forth.  Heh. Poor Drift. The ball bearings were only minorly conductive, enough to roll and fuzz with charge, but not enough, never enough, to tumble him into overload.  Drift could run a marathon with those in him--probably leave a wet train of lubricant--and never overload.  Which is what made them so perfect: Drift, helpless and aroused and tormented.

Just the way Rodimus liked him.

The meeting ended--finally, Rodimus at the end of his own, limited patience.  Drift mustered a series of nods to the departing mechs, but only Rodimus could see the way the sleek thighs squeezed together, frustrated and aroused, knowing that the emptying room maybe meant a chance for relief.  

Drift mumbled some answer to Ultra Magnus’s question, then repeated, a little more clearly--Ultra Magnus despised mumbling as a criminal act of desecration of Neo Cybex--that he’d look into it.  Whatever it was, Rodimus had no clue: he was too busy mentally licking his lips at Drift, his optics meandering over the taut, almost vibrating frame.

Finally, they were alone, after one last shoo’ing wave at Ultra Magnus.  Rodmus turned the full wattage of his smile on  Drift.

“So. How you feeling?”

“I think you know.”  Drift tried to sound something like sullen. And failed.  He wanted Rodimus, knew he was the only one who would give him what he wanted--needed.  

“I want to hear it anyway,” Rodimus said, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his head.  You know, just exposing the whole long, sexy length of his chassis.

A huff, venting hot, aroused air. “A little turned on.”

“Only a little?”

“A lot.” An admission, pulled half-unwillingly.

Rodimus leaned forward. “Is there a wet spot on the chair?” Hey, this was foreplay, the hot dance around the main event.  And pulling this bit by bit from Drift’s vocalizer was all part of the treat.  Ultra Magnus, well...he’d write a report. Probably with graphs.  Drift kept trying to resist, even knowing he didn’t want to.  Always a fighter.  Rodimus liked that.

Like right now, Drift squirming on the seat, hands knotting. “...yes.”

Rodimus’s engine revved. Oh frag, that was a hot image.  “Want me to spike you?”

A groan, the hands twisting on each other. “If you want.”  

If Rodimus wanted. Right. Like there was a time of day he didn’t want to?  He sat back, slapping a palm on the conference table. “Hop on up here, then.”  He made a ‘hurry up’ gesture, for good measure, watching as Drift struggled to comply, each movement sending the small metal balls in his valve shifting and rolling against the mesh.  

There was, indeed, a wet spot, Rodimus noted, almost crowing inwardly, as Drift perched on the table in front of him.  He pushed the red flanges on the knees apart, to expose the white cleanness of Drift’s inner thighs, sleek and, right no, glossed ith lubricant from the interface hatch seam.  Rodimus grinned, ducking forward to place a hot, licking kiss on the hatch’s warm surface, tasting the lubricant, feeling the taut vibration of Drift’s aroused valve beneath.  

Rodimus pushed to his feet, spreading the knees wider, to graze his own interface panel against Drift’s. Not that he needed any ready time, of course. But he liked to draw things out, tease himself with how easily he could grasp at what he wanted, and yet held back from.  “Feels warm,” he murmured, looking down. “And wet.”  

Drift squirmed against him, the knees trying to lock around his hips, pulling him in.  

Yeah, getting there.  Without the guidance, even. “Lie back,” he said, pushing on the Autobot insignia on the chassis, pushing Drift onto his back.  “And hike your hips up.”  No sense spilling all the bearings on the floor. That was a comedy routine waiting to happen and while he was up for that...not now.  Now, all he wanted to do was to sink his length into that valve, warm, slick, filled.  

The white feet came up, hooking the edge of the table, and Drift lifted his hips, bridging upward, offering his interface hatch.  Rodimus flicked it open, grinning at the seeping valve cover as he released his own equipment, spike jumping from its housing to bump against the thin petals. “Open,” he said, less a command than a permission: the metal sheets folded aside, the hips tipping up even more as the valve calipers squeezed in anticipation. He could see the silvery balls moving in the valve, filling it, shiny with lubricant, inviting him to push in.

Who was he to refuse, right? Rodimus had plenty of awesome to spread around to the masses. Or, at least, to the masses who caught his fancy. He nosed his spike into the valve, moving slower than his libido would have liked, to draw out the feeling of the spike entering, all those ball bearings rolling and moving over the spike’s plates. They were downright hot from Drift’s own arousal, hot and slippery, and they seemed to pull him further in, the motion milking him forward until his spike crowned the ceiling of the valve.  

Drift was barely ventilating, held still as the spike pushed the balls even further aside, moving from filling his valve to stretching it. The calipers fluttered, weakly, wantonly, the blue optics distant and inward.  Rodimus could have stayed there for cycles, just looking at Drift, on the blade of arousal, that line between pleasure and pain, where ‘too much’ was an exquisite sort of invitation, pressing against one’s limits.  

He could have stayed there: he didn’t.  Because the metal balls that he’d set to torment Drift were doing their work a little too well on him, as well, rolling deliciously over his spike, lateral, diagonal, and along the length, some tracing wobbling shapes as the calipers squeezed and released.  Besides, he’d kept Drift waiting long enough: he’d earned this, earned the way Rodimus gripped his shoulder, bracing against it as he began driving into the valve, angled down into the filled space, feeling the ball bearings fill in with each withdraw, press aside to make room with each thrust, rolling indescribably over his spike, the baseplate wet ith splashed fluids from the valve as he pounded into the valve, whipped by his own lust. He was never a mech known for self-restraint. What was the point of that scrap anyway?  Life was for living, always had been, not boxed in by manners and protocols and all those regulations Ultra Magnus    was always droning on about.

And this was part of living, letting the body go, taking the reins to whip itself up to its own release, letting go of words except for a few grunts punctuating his movement. He wanted to tell Drift how hot it was, how the little ball bearings were so fraggin’ good and how Drift made him hot just by walking, with those sensuously curved thighs, the broad chassis, lithe and functional.  

Eh another time: he felt the overload rising, like a beast from the sea, roaring up from the depths until the roar forced its way through his vocalizer, his body jamming sharply against Drift’s one last time, spilling heat and lust and fluid into the stretched valve mesh.  

A long moment, the conference room filled with the strained whirring of coolant fans, the two of them panting, wracked from the overload, struggling to catch their breath. One of them started laughing, or really both of them, the laugh catching both their vocalizers, spilling out of them, even as they both twitched and jerked as the laugh shifted the ball bearings against them both.  

“Thought Ultra Magnus was onto us,” Drift chuckled.

“Pfff. I’m not sure he even thinks about interfacing at all, much less kinky interfacing.”  

“He knew something was up.”

“Oh yes,” Rodimus smirked. “Masterful detective work seeing through your stoic demeanor.”

Drift snorted a laugh, wriggling back onto the table.  “You were right. It was kind of fun.”

Kind of? Perish the thought, Rodimus thought, easing himself out of the spike.   One of the ball bearings tumbled from the valve to the table, then another, then a whole flood of them spilling onto the floor, rattling with noise, rolling everywhere. Drift looked mortified, just for a klik, before the two tumbled into laughter again.  “Next time, though,” he said, “my turn.” Because why should ex-Decepticons have all the fun?


End file.
